


Scarecrow

by JoulesIsIronic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon compliant until 1.10 - Co-Captain, Gen, Gore, Hurt!Stiles, Kidnapping, POV Multiple, Permanent Injury, Rescue, Torture, the pre-est of pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:42:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesIsIronic/pseuds/JoulesIsIronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate thinks Stiles is the second beta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarecrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stormysaslytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormysaslytherin/gifts).



> Merry whatever-holiday-you-celebrate-if-you-celebrate-a-holiday! Christmas present for my dear Stormy. Hope you like it. 
> 
> Warnings: violence and torture. There is also an off-hand non-con threat from Kate, not to mention all other warnings that come with Kate's existence, so proceed with caution.
> 
> Un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.

The real downside to the whole hunting biz is the tedium, Kate thinks. It’s ridiculous how much time is spent _watching_ and _waiting_. It’s not that she’s impatient, per say. She’s well-practiced in the art, familiar with the rewards that accompany the virtue. She knows how to play the game, as she has many times before, worming her way in, taking her time.

It’s the same method she used to burn the Hale house, after all. One of her finer moments, she remembers, recalling the shouts and cries and _howls_ that reverberated through the fire-kissed walls, smoldering and dilapidating before her eyes.

The Stilinski house is quiet, a few downstairs lights illuminating the night. Through the window, she can spy the two of them, scouring over piles of papers on their dining room table, the Sheriff throwing back a cup of something alcoholic and becoming increasingly intoxicated. Well, that will help for later, she’s sure. He’ll be too busy sleeping it off to realize anything’s wrong. From her spot across the street, she blends into the darkness, casually sipping her coffee as she waits for something, for _anything_ , to happen, to relieve her of her boredom.

Kate has her suspicions about the Stilinski boy; about ‘ _Stiles_ ,’ she scoffs in her mind. Not that the Whittemore boy isn’t a good candidate; he could quite fit the bill, too. But Kate’s not in the practice of keeping all of her eggs in one basket, and the Stilinski kid has too many coincidences under his belt.

It’s mostly just little things. He was at the school, too, that night the alpha attacked. His transcripts boast a hefty 4.0, so he’s gotta have something rolling around between his ears. Not that werewolves are necessarily intelligent, but she thinks cleverness might have been a draw to a perspective alpha. He’s on the lacrosse team, but he warms the bench, which means if he has talent – if he is, in fact, a newly turned beast – he’s smart enough to hide it, not to flaunt it on the field. And if that’s the case, it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it, that the one game he was supposed to play, he missed? Not exactly the behavior of a normal high school loser, one who’s desperate to impress, eager to get noticed.

The most pressing evidence, of course, is where he was last night instead. From what her sources have gathered, he was seen driving around one Derek Hale, pathetic beta extraordinaire.

Normal high schoolers don’t tend to associate with accused murders, particularly when their father is the sheriff, and when they’re the ones who did the accusing.

She and her brother have since decided to take a more divide-and-conquer approach to investigating. He’ll keep an eye on the Whittemore boy, and she’ll figure out the deal with Stilinski. Discretely, Chris had emphasized, taking care to reiterate Allison’s friendship with the boy. But Kate is more of a rip-the-Band-Aid-off type of gal, something she’s sure Allison will appreciate when it’s all said and done. So if her methods involve a little less stalking and a little more screaming, well, it’s no skin off her back.

After all, regardless of whether he’s the second beta, he’s still obviously close to Hale. Derek isn’t one to give his companionship freely; they wouldn’t be spending time together, helping each other out, if there wasn’t something there. So, at the very least, he’ll be an excellent tool in making the last little Hale suffer.

A short burst of light alerts her to the front door opening, briefly, the glow from inside a bright contrast to darkened sky. Kate glances at the clock on her dash, thinking, with a smirk, how curious it is for the boy to be rushing out at such an odd hour on a school night, phone clutched to his ear, muttering something frantically, almost fearfully, as he climbs into his jeep. He doesn’t notice her, but then, who would?

It isn’t hard to follow him. The boy seems oblivious to the headlights behind him, a decent distance away, mirroring his every turn. It shouldn’t be long now, anyway, before he has to stop. The puncture in his gas tank will force him to pull over, once he notices how quickly the gauge is plunging, how much nearer it is to the E.

He waits it out longer than she expects him to, pulling into a gas station, a frustrated expression twisting his face as he pulls out his wallet. It’s late, but not late enough for the station to be closed. Through the window, Kate spies a bored teenager behind the counter, flipping through a skin mag, head propped in his hand. She glances to where a camera is situated, gathering dust, the lens murky, no lights to indicate it’s functioning. When she came back into town, she was provided a list of the security cameras that are just for show. This one is one of them.

Like candy from a baby, she sneers, pulling her SUV in front of his jeep.

He glances over, disinterestedly at first; then his brown orbs dart back up, fixing on her, widening in recognition.

“Oh, hey. You’re Allison’s aunt, right?” He sounds nervous, like he’s hiding something. “Fancy running into you here.” His free hand rubs at the back of his neck as he forces out a laugh, nodding his head in acknowledgment, lips pressed together in an aborted smile.

Kate grins, barring her teeth.

“Small world,” she tells him, strolling closer casually, leisurely. “Hey, speaking of my niece, can I ask you a question?”

His guard drops, just like it’s supposed to. The nozzle in his hand clicks off and he replaces it, twisting the cap back on his gas tank as he turns back to her.

“Uh, sure,” he mutters, shrugging, glancing at his phone anxiously. “Shoot.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

Her gun is already in her hands, pointed at his chest, and she watches as surprise filters into his features, bleeding into dread, fear, and, finally, annoyance.

Stilinski sighs audibly, huffing out a breath, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“Seriously?”

Not the reaction of a normal teenager, who would be trembling and pissing himself. This is the face of someone resigned, someone who almost expected that this could be a possibility.

Kate gestures to her SUV. “In.”

He complies. What else is he going to do? The boy’s smart, probably biding his time. She waits until he climbs into the passengers’ seat to tranq him, his tongue clicking in protest when she plunges the injection into the crook of his arm.

His face twists in distaste and he mumbles an unhappy, “Ugh, needles,” as his eyes droop shut. She binds his wrists and ankles on principle and glances through the window again. The clerk still has his gaze focused on the magazine. It’s doubtful that he noticed anything.

She straps the boy’s seatbelt to make him look less noticeable to passers-by; so that he appears more like a sleeping teen who fell asleep on a long car ride and less like an abductee, unconscious and carried off against his will. Her gender helps. No one ever suspects women. If they see her, their minds will automatically supply _aunt_ or _older sister_ , not kidnapper. And, really, that’s their loss.

Kate pulls away from the station at a sedate pace, flicking on the radio and heading toward her favorite little hidey-hole: her makeshift dungeon under the Hale house. Beside her, Stiles stirs, just a twitch, and she watches the smooth line of his jaw flinch. The motion, the pained expression marring his face, makes her smile.

Tonight is going to be fun.

~~~

Stiles isn’t entirely awake yet, but his mind still supplies two words: tonight _blows._

He comes to awareness slowly, fitfully, his limbs twisting painfully as they attempt to stretch, his head pounding, throbbing, making it hard to think or focus. When his eyes finally squint open, he realizes why. He’s tied down – like, legit, chains and all – to some medieval torture chair, arms-to-chair-arms and legs-to-chair-legs.

The first thing he does, of course, is tug at the restraints, unsurprised to find that there’s no give. He can feel his wrists already bruising as they rub against the cold, unyielding cuff, and a shiver stabs at him, goosebumps sprouting along his arms and back. The wooden back of the chair – lower than most, only reaching halfway up his torso – is cold and foreign against his skin.

It gives him pause and he glances down at his chest. His naked chest. Where the hell did his shirt go? Better yet, where the hell are his pants? Or his shoes? Or his socks? Thin, Batman boxers are the only things shielding him. The thought is almost more unnerving than the bondage.

There’s a patch of wires hooked to his chest. Stiles swallows anxiously, wondering why its there. He wiggles as much as he can, which isn’t much, clenching his fists in frustration, suppressing the shout that’s trapped in his chest, clawing its way to the surface. His thoughts flicker to Scott, who’s waiting for him, who needs him, because Mrs. M is on a date with a freakin’ alpha _werewolf_ and he’s supposed to _be_ there, stopping it, helping him, preventing whatever sinister super-villain plan the psychopath’s got in mind.

The room around him is mercifully empty; it’s also not-so-mercifully filled with apparent torture tools, if the sharp edges and threatening natures are anything to go by. He swallows instinctively, trying to dislodge the lump forming in his throat. Now’s not the time to lose his cool. There’s a gigantic unlit spotlight, a cluttered table (littered with his clothes and belongings), and plenty of other perfectly mundane things. What are the chances this is actually a torture chamber? Seriously, who has one of those?

Then again, it was Kate _Argent_ who kidnapped him, so….

The thought makes his blood run cold, his heart halting to a standstill before firing off faster than ever. Kate Argent, resident sociopathic werewolf hunter, kidnapped him and chained him up in some creepy-ass dungeon for undoubtedly nefarious purposes.

And that’s not utterly terrifying or anything, nope, not at all.

As if on cue, the quiet patter of footsteps echo from outside the room, growing louder. A lock clicks from the other side of a metal door, which slowly creaks open.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Kate says, stepping in and sliding the door closed behind her. “The tranq took a bit longer to wear off than I thought it would. Didn’t expect you to be such a lightweight. Comfortable?” She smiles at him, a predatory expression that cuts bone-deep.

“Yeah, gotta say, great accommodations you got here,” he bites out, unable to stop himself. His eyes catch on the hunting knife clutched in her hand and his fingers clench, curling around the arms of the chair.

Kate chuckles, a sound that would almost be musical if it didn’t cut off humorlessly in the middle, sharp and serrated like her blade.

“Only the best for our guest of honor,” she tells him, the shining locks of hair bobbing as she crouches in front of him.

Stiles swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s acutely aware of his nakedness, of her proximity to his bare legs, only inches from the grip on her knife. “Oh yeah? And why’s that? ‘Cause I gotta say, kidnapping the son of the local sheriff? Not smart. My dad’s gonna have every cop in the area looking for me.”

“Sweetie, your father’s most likely passed out drunk on your dining room table. He won’t even notice your gone until tomorrow morning, at earliest. He’ll think you simply left for school before he woke up.”

“How do you…?” _How do you know about that?_ he wants to ask. But the answer is obvious. She’s been watching him, for god knows how long. And if that isn’t enough to make him want to piss himself, he’s not sure what will be. What he’d really like to know is _why_ , but he doubts she’ll answer that. He just hopes to whatever deity is listening that it doesn’t have to do with Scott, that they’re not using him to get to his friend. “And what happens when the school calls and asks him why I’m not there?”

At that Kate’s grin becomes more Cheshire, more mocking. “Hello, Mrs. Clemins?” she imitates in a higher pitch. “Yes, this is Deputy Dana from the Sheriff’s office. He’s out investigating a break-in, but he’s asked that I call to inform that his son, Stiles, isn’t feeling well and will be staying home today.” She pauses, her lips twisting up in a closed-lipped smirk. “Honestly, honey, it’s not something I’m too worried about.”

The most unnerving part is that it would probably work. It’s something his dad’s asked deputies to do in the past; it wouldn’t be particularly uncommon.

“And when I don’t come home from school?” He’s not sure why he’s even bothering to ask.

Stiles isn’t particularly surprised when Kate pulls out his phone. He can only hope she hasn’t perused, looked through any of his texts. It’s not like he’s been particularly subtle about the whole werewolf thing, something he’s now regretting.

She mimics texting, pressing her fingers to the keypad. “Hey dad, heading to Scott’s to prep for the dance! I’ll probably stay over his house tonight. Don’t wait up!” Kate replaces the phone in her pocket. “He won’t even realize anything’s wrong until days from now, and by then I doubt there will be anything left to salvage.”

“That doesn’t sound _at all_ like something a serial killer would say,” Stiles mutters darkly, glaring, hoping his bravado will hide the shaking in his fingers, the terror in his eyes. He wonders about his jeep, abandoned at the gas station, but opts not to ask. It’s likely that she already had her hunter goons move it, but if she hasn’t, if it’s left there as a telltale sign of his absence, then he’s not going to be the one to remind her. “Fun as all this sounds, mind telling me what all this kidnapping’s about? ‘Cause, gotta say, not really loving it.”

“Aw, what’s wrong, kiddo? You’re not scared are you?” She plays with the knife in her fingers, twirling it, as if it was a pen and she was a bored office worker.

“Oh, no, not at all. I get kidnapped by psychopaths all the time.”

“That’s not surprising,” Kate says, shrugging, “considering how much time you spend with Hale.”

Stiles blinks. “Wait, what?”

“You’re little BFF Derek. I’m sure his company ends with close calls all the time.”

And, well, yeah, the few times they’ve been forced to roll together have involved some near-death experiences, but still. “What are you even talking about? Derek and I aren’t friends. We don’t even like each other.”

“Yet, you skipped your only chance at first line to drive him around last night,” Kate murmurs. “I don’t do that for people I dislike.”

“No, you kidnap and torture them,” retorts Stiles.

“I haven’t tortured you yet,” she points out. “But that can most certainly change. I get the feeling you look pretty when you bleed.”

Then the blade is pressed against his cheek, slicing in shallowly, with the barest amount of pressure. He wants to speak, to say something, to find a way to talk himself out of this, but every breath he takes presses the knife in deeper; moving his lips will only make it worse.

“What is it with you mutts, anyway?” Her voice is treacherously casual, calm-before-the-storm dangerous. “Always playing the victim, always trying to hide what monsters you are.”

It takes a moment for the words to click, but when they do, it’s all he can do not to open his mouth, not to refute. When his lips part, ever so slightly, trying to find words, he feels the blade dig in again, blood brimming over and leaving tracks down his cheeks.

The thought makes him sick. He doesn’t do well with blood, never has.

When she takes the blade away, not far, but enough of a distance to breathe, he shakes his head. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not….”

He pauses. There’s no way to refute her words without admitting his knowledge of werewolves, and how the hell can he do that without bringing Scott into it?

He decides lying is his best option.

“Look, Derek’s an old family friend, but I’m not like him. I’m not a werewolf. Wherever you got your info, it’s wrong. One-hundred percent human, right here.”

“I thought you said you and Derek weren’t friends,” she prods, smiling sweetly.

Stiles hesitates. “I was going for, you know, the royal version of family friend. We’ve mostly got the pen pal thing going on, so not like _friend-_ friend, but more like the kind of acquaintance you call a friend ‘cause it’s easier, you know?”

She isn’t buying it, that much is obvious. Kate’s still wearing that same patronizing expression.

“Right. And you were driving him around why exactly?”

 _Sprinkle in some truth_ , a voice whispers in his mind. “He wanted to visit a relative. Some comatose guy. His car broke down though, too much gunfire, I guess, so I dropped him off. That’s it. No secret, malevolent purposes. Can I go now?”

“You make it sound so mundane,” she comments, her eyes flickering to the flecks of blood on the knife. “But if it was so unimportant, why abandon your only chance to play lacrosse, something you’ve been craving for ages? Especially when your dad was watching anxiously in the audience, waiting for your appearance. Doesn’t really make much sense to _me_.”

It happens so fast, Stiles’ eyes can’t follow the movement. One moment he’s staring, mouth slightly agape, digging for a believable excuse; the next, the blade is being slammed into the top of his hand.

He hears the _thunk_ before he feels it, before he can process what’s happening. Kate buries the knife deep, all six inches, partially through the arm of the chair. It doesn’t quite reach the hilt – there’s a good inch or two of metal gleaming above his twitching hand – but it’s enough, more than enough. The sound that escapes his throat is pitiful, a half-whimper, half-shriek.

“Oh, that looks like it hurts,” coos Kate, twisting the handle ever-so-slightly. The teen screws his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of blood seeping out of his hand, trying to stop himself from picturing the metal slicing through bone and muscle and skin and blood, oozing it out of him, gushing and seeping and….

His breath comes in gasps, his chest heaving, desperate for air.

Before him, he can hear Kate _tsk_ as long, slender fingers wrap around his chin, squeezing.

“No, no, no,” she scolds, digging her nails into his skin until he reluctantly opens his eyes. “Let’s not be having any of that, huh?”

Stiles grits his teeth, trying to block out the throbbing in his hand, the searing, the stinging, the _burning_. “Fuck you.”

He receives a slap for his troubles. It’s almost enough to distract him from the pain in his hand, even if it only for the briefest second.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, sweetie. We’re going to play a game! Doesn’t that sound fun? I’m going to ask you a question, and every time you lie, I’m going to hurt you. Maybe I’ll burn you, maybe I’ll cut you, electrocute you, who knows? I’ve got all sorts of goodies in my bag. Pretty great, right?”

The would-be gentle hands pat his stinging cheek condescendingly.

“Like a blast. And what do I get if I tell the truth?”

Kate withdraws her hand, standing up and strolling over to a long, wooden box, which she drags over and places near his bound feet. She pops the top, but he can’t see what’s inside from his angle.

Then she looks up at him, her eyes glittering with excitement. “A brief reprieve from pain, of course.”

Stiles’ fists clench instinctively and he gasps out a scream when it causes the blade to dig in further. The blood is dripping to the floor, a monotonous _tic tic tic_ against the cement.

When he can finally catch his breath, he snarls, “How generous. A-plus reward scheme.”

From her little box of horrors, Kate retrieves a blowtorch. She plays with it in her hands, weighing it, admiring it. The thing is tiny, compared to what he might have imagined; no wires, no bulky tanks, about the size of a handgun, but with a longer handle and a smaller nozzle.

Stiles’ mouth goes dry.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he stammers, trying to control the pounding in his chest. “What’s that for?”

Kate tests it, watching happily as a blue flame lights the tip. Then her eyes lock with his. “For the game, of course.”

It must be portable, he thinks hysterically. He somehow doubts that the designers pictured this scene playing out, their creation being used to torture a teenager.

His limbs instinctively rebel against the restraints, pulling, trying to gain traction, freedom, regardless of how hopeless the situation is. All he can focus on is the litany shouting in his mind, _no, not a fucking blowtorch, this isn’t happening, run, get out, get out get out get out getoutgetoutgetout_ …

She swivels toward him and he can feel the heat of the flame near his legs, near his _junk_ , dangerously hot, increasingly uncomfortable.

“Wait,” he cries out when she lets it hover to close, barely an inch from his thigh. “Wait, stop!”

Kate raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Yes?”

The words choke in his throat. “You – you haven’t even asked a question yet. That’s the game, isn’t it? You ask me a question _before_ you torture me?”

He hisses when she lets the tip of the flame linger against his skin for several seconds, not close enough to burn too deep, just enough to leave an angry, red patch.

“We’ll get there,” she allows, switching the blowtorch to the other side of his legs, brushing it against his skin, bringing it closer, and leaving it there longer. He sucks in a pained gasp, biting on his lip to stifle a whimper. “I’m just warming you up, first. Giving you a little taste. You don’t want to see what I can really do, do you Stiles? You don’t want me to actually _try_ to hurt you, right?”

It’s a trap. He doesn’t respond.

The smile’s back, broad and gleeful. “That’s what I figured.” Finally, she pulls the flame away. The knife drags in his hand when he accidently twitches his fingers. “Alrighty, since you’re so eager, let’s start, shall we? Okay, Stiles, I want you to be really honest with me. It’s not like I _want_ to punish you for lying, so why don’t you tell me the truth, huh? Who’s your alpha?”

 _There’s no right answer_ , his mind supplies frantically. _There’s no right answer_. He can’t tell her about Peter, not now, especially not when he’s on a date with Scott’s mother. There are too many ways that scenario will end bad, with Scott’s mom getting hurt, or Kate realizing the truth about Scott. Stiles doesn’t trust Kate to let bygones be bygones; and Kate’s already proven with him that she has absolutely zero problems raking up casualties.

“I’m not a werewolf,” he eventually grinds out, figuring it’s the safest option, his eyes fixed to the potent blue flame. “I already told you, I’m not a werewolf. I don’t have an alpha.”

Kate clicks her tongue, shaking her head in faux-sympathy. “Oh Stiles.”

“I’m telling the truth!” he snaps, his breath coming out in panted gasps as he watches her bring the torch closer, her eyes raking down his body as if searching for the most painful place to burn him.

She plays around a bit first, running the flame slowly across long expanses of skin on his thighs, moving up, settling around his abs, frighteningly close to the waistband of his boxers. Stiles closes his eyes while she does this, biting his lip to hold back the moans, the cries trapped at the base of his throat.

Minutes later, when there’s a pause in her machinations, he opens his eyes again. There’s still a smile alit on her lips. He follows her gaze to the knife in his hand.

“We wouldn’t want you bleeding out, would we?” she asks, gaze flickering to his, clearly reveling in his look of terror, in the way he instinctively flinches.

Knowing what she’s about to do doesn’t make it easier. He closes his eyes again, but only for a second, before he feels the blowtorch again, hovering between his legs. Then they’re open again, wide and alert. They lock with hers.

“No, no, no,” Kate scolds, teeth barred in a mockery of a smile. She gestures to his bleeding hand. “Eyes on the prize, kiddo.”

She pulls the knife out slowly, wiggling it as she works. “It’s really stuck in the wood, huh,” she taunts. Stiles can’t hold back his sobs as it saws through his hand again, on a different path than the first time, slicing through previously unmarred flesh. The sound it makes is sickening, all squishy and squelchy, like shoes stuck in mud.

He swallows down vomit, almost turning his head away, until he remembers the blowtorch hovering near his privates. Then the blade is finally out.

Kate places it on the floor gently, almost with reverence. Her fingers are flecked with his blood now, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She pulls at his wrist, twisting it so that she can see the wound.

Her face contorts in an over exaggerated grimace. “Oh, that looks like it hurts.”

“Go to hell.”

“Aw,” Kate croons. “Is that any way to talk to the person cauterizing your wound?”

His wrists strain in the cuffs, trying to pull away from her. “Don’t touch me.”

“But sweetheart, if I don’t, you’ll bleed out! Then who will I play with? Well, your pal Scott does have those adorable brown eyes. He might know something useful, I suppose.”

Stiles freezes. “Leave him alone. He has nothing to do with any of this.”

Kate just shrugs. “Then I suggest that you be a bit more helpful and don’t make it necessary for me to milk him for information.”

She makes it sound so mundane, like she kidnaps and tortures teenagers on a daily basis. And, hell, maybe she does.

“Now lets see that hand of yours,” she murmurs, finally removing the blowtorch from its precarious place between his legs, bringing it instead to the wounds on his hand. “This might sting.”

He screams. It burns slowly, agonizingly. Kate takes care to be thorough, scorching not only the sliced flesh, but the areas around it, too. When she’s finished with one side, she moves on to the other, operating at the same, sloth-like pace, grinning as she works.

Stiles closes his eyes before she’s finished, focusing on the hissing of the blowtorch in an attempt to block out the throbbing in his hand, the white-hot pain that’s making his eyes water, and his face scrunch up.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he hears Kate say. The blowtorch clicks off for a second; when it lights up again, he can hear it near his face, can feel the heat on his cheek. Warily, he squints his eyes open. “Now let’s try this again, shall we? Who’s your alpha, Stiles?”

A sob breaks loose from his throat.

In as steady of a voice as he can muster, he repeats, “I don’t have one. I’m not an werewolf.”

Kate pouts, the expression fake, expectant. She presses the flame to his cheek.

“ _Please_ ,” cries Stiles, shrieking when the fire burns him. He turns his head, reeling back as far as he can go. “I’m not what you think I am! I’m not a werewolf! I don’t have an alpha!”

She doesn’t stop, though, not that Stiles thought she would. Slowly, millimeter-by-millimeter, she runs the torch down the side of his face.

The teen screams until his voice gives out, unable to stifle the sound. It worms at his gut, heavy like lead, that he’s giving Kate the satisfaction.

When she finally pulls the torch away, she tilts her head, frowning. “I wish you hadn’t made me do that, Stiles. I hate ruining such a pretty face.”

His voice is soft when he finally speaks. “I’m not a werewolf. This isn’t going to heal.”

He glances up to see Kate’s reaction. The hunter just shrugs, indifferent. “What, kid, you think this is my first rodeo? Adorable. We both know werewolves can control whether or not they heal. But I’ll let you in on a secret, how does that sound?” She doesn’t wait for an answer; just drops her voice to a pseudo-whisper. “I don’t care what you are. We’re all going to burn one way or another anyway.”

And, well, he supposes that’s all there is to it. No use trying to convince her he’s human. No point trying to appeal to whatever sliver of humanity he thought she might possess, because there’s nothing there. She doesn’t _care_.

She’s just having fun. Killing time.

“Is that how you justified it?” he asks quietly, glaring into her eyes, “torturing innocent people? Innocent _humans_ even? How does that fit into your ‘code?’”

At that, Kate snorts. “The code, huh? Here’s what I think of ‘the code.’” Then the knife is in her hand again, and she’s slamming it into his thigh.

He doesn’t have the energy to scream anymore. His throat is raw, his voice hoarse. Another sob manages to escape, raking his body as he bites back a series of cries, head rolled back, eyes screwed shut.

“Bitch,” he manages to spit, a fleck of blood from his split lip catching on her cheek.

She twists the knife. “Looks like we’ve got another one to cauterize.”

He groans.

“But at least I missed the bone. Something for you to be grateful about, huh?”

Stiles doesn’t respond, What else can he really say?

Kate uses the same technique to pull out the blade again. She doesn’t let it linger like the one in his hand, though, probably afraid that if he bleeds out, she’ll have to find another toy to play with. How the hell she plans to burn the underside of his leg is beyond him until she finally gets to that point and undoes the lock on his ankle.

With all the force he can muster, he kicks out. Kate catches the thrust easily, rolling her eyes.

“Cute,” she comments, twisting his ankle at the foot, forcing it to the side unnaturally until he hears a crunch, like bones grinding together. When she’s satisfied he won’t move again, she pushes his leg up, holding it at an uncomfortable angle so that it’s stretched above her as she cauterizes the other side.

His body shivers, his teeth gritting as he forces his mouth closed. He feels so vulnerable like this, legs spread, his kidnapper nestled between his knees as she burns him. Stiles tries to compel his body to calm down, tries to steady his heartbeat. Tries not to think about how easy it would be for her to adjust her body, to turn ever so slightly and go for his waistband, for her to disfigure his junk, too. He doesn’t doubt that she’s crazy enough to try it.

When she’s done, he pumps out again, failing to so much as faze her. His ankle is secured again, and for a moment he thinks she tightened the cuff, only to realize that the limb is swollen.

Through dry lips, he croaks, “So is this how the rest of the night is gonna be? You torturing me for information I don’t have, knowing that I can’t give it to you?”

Retrieving the bloody knife from the floor, she fiddles with it in her hands, climbing to her feet, stepping closer.

“We’re going to have so much fun, aren’t we, Stiles?” She steps forward, lifting a leg up and sliding it in between the space below the arms of the chair, following through with the other until she’s straddling him, a heavy weight that strains against the burns and cuts, that presses agonizingly against his wounded leg. He gasps, his breath shaky, barely biting down his moan.  “Well, I will, at least.”

She brings the knife to the less-marred side of his face, pressing the blade just under his eye, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Let’s hear you scream.”

Then she sets to work.

***

It’s easier than Derek expected to scare Jackson off. That had been his job, after all. Peter had given him two potential endgames: warning Jackson off or killing the teen. They couldn’t have him proceeding along the way he’d been doing; it was a threat and it had to be eliminated. He thinks Peter will be pleased that it was handled without bloodshed, not for any squeamishness over murder, but because Scott will be more likely to join their pack if they can prove themselves above violence, and that seems to be the main goal at the moment: recruiting Scott.

It isn’t hard to reduce Jackson to tears, to send him running, a sniveling, snot-nosed coward, promising to keep his distance. Derek’s only slightly torn. Jackson would undoubtedly make a terrible werewolf. He’s selfish, he’s cruel, and he’s cold-blooded. But at the same time, he’s willing, and the larger their pack grows, the stronger they’ll become.

But Peter thinks they can do better, and he’s the alpha, so it’s not Derek’s call. And at least Scott has a good heart, is trying to make the right choices. He’s stubborn and resistant, but maybe with time the new beta will come around. Derek just hopes it’s sooner rather than later.

He mills around the burnt remains of his home after Jackson leaves, spending several hours in Laura’s old bedroom, leaning against an unsteady wall, quiet and pensive. When he closes his eyes, he can almost see her, almost smell her, almost picture the room as it once was before he so monumentally fucked up and everything burned. He still has trouble processing that only a few months ago they were sitting across from each other at a little café in New York, sipping lattes and contemplating rebuilding the pack.

Lying in the ashes of his former home, he listens to the wind in the trees, to the chatter of evening predators in the thicket, letting the forest’s symphony lull him to sleep.

The moon is still high in the sky, gleaming, when Derek finally hears it, dull and barely audible; he jerks awake at the sound, pressing his ear to the soot-covered floor, trying to identify the noise and wondering why it chills him to the bone.

It sounds almost like… well, like _screaming_. Derek pads downstairs to the first floor – not the basement, where his family burned; he still can’t handle that – to where the living room once was and closes his eyes, trying to turn off his other senses and focus his hearing. There’s a moment when he isn’t sure it will work, when he thinks his powers won’t be enough.

But then it pierces him, sharp and jarring, and he recognizes that scream. _Stiles_.

He has no idea why the teen would be nearby, why he would be screaming himself hoarse, but it’s definitely him. He would know that voice anywhere.

The real question is where the hell is it coming from? It almost sounds like it’s from somewhere beneath him, below the ground, but that couldn’t be…

Something stirs in his mind, a foggy memory of hidden passageways and underground compartments, of where they would go when they were young and unable to control the pull of the moon. He was just a child then, no more than six or seven, before he could shift at will. But he remembers where the entrance is, and that’s all the matters.

He’s already dialing Scott, breaking into a run as he does so, trying to save time. For a moment, he wonders how anyone could have known about it. Peter would have, certainly, but he’s still trying to win over Scott. It would be stupid of him to attack the boy’s best friend.

Then he remembers Kate, and how eager he’d been to impress her. He vaguely recalls mentioning it to her off-hand, stroking her hair, the night he told her about his family and about the eclipse. The night before they all burned.

The phone goes to voicemail. Derek isn’t sure why he’s surprised. For all he knows, Scott’s still furious about his siding with Peter. It will take some time for the teen to adjust and accept the change of pace. Plus, Scott’s most likely already aware of Stiles’ absence and is probably focusing all his energy on that at the moment. It’s frustrating and anxiety-inducing – enough so that he almost crushes his phone in irritation – but in a way he almost understands.

He tries Peter next, because he’s his alpha and should be aware that Derek’s heading into an undoubtedly dangerous situation, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Derek hangs up without leaving a message.

It isn’t until he’s through the entrance to the underground passageways that he finally hears Kate; it makes his blood run cold, the phantom smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils.

“Aw, honey,” she’s saying from somewhere down the way. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to answer the question?”

An aborted shriek follows the question, broken off like Stiles bit his lip to stifle the sound.

It’s too dangerous to try another phone call. Derek flicks his phone to silent, darting out a text to Scott: _Stiles hurt. Under Hale house. ARGENTS. Passage in woods. HURRY._

He can only hope the teen has his phone on him, that he’s not deleting any texts Derek sends without even opening them. Even now with all the fury in his veins, he’s not sure if he can beat Kate single-handedly. She’s dangerous, more so than any other hunter he’s ever met, because if Kate’s anything, it’s ruthless and clever and remorseless. He needs backup.

Flipping the phone shut, he wedges it in his pocket, slinking forward until he’s just outside the metal door, pausing for a moment to listen.

Kate’s speaking again, her voice chipper, such a contrast to her brittle, burnt-out core. “Gotta say, you’re way more resilient than I would have pegged you for. But let’s be real, kiddo. You’ve gotta be at the end of your rope by now. Just talk to me. This can all be over.”

There’s a strangled sound. Then he hears a rasped, “Go fuck yourself.”

Kate tsks. Stiles moans.

The door wrenches open with surprising ease, clattering against the frame. Derek is already shifted as he tears into the room, fangs out, eyes blazing.

He freezes at once, nostrils flaring, bile rising.

It’s the smell that hits him first, the stench of burnt flesh, and at once it’s the day of the fire and he’s running toward the smoldering remains of his home, Laura clutching at his arms, howling with blood-red eyes, breathing in their family’s remains, knowing that _it’s all his fault_.

It takes a snort from Kate to jolt him back to reality, her honey-hair dancing around her, a hellbeast wearing an angel’s skin. She smiles, a sight he once found breathtaking, and hums, “Aw, how precious.”

His eyes follow the motion of her hands, long and slender, wielding pliers that are wedged under one of Stiles’ fingernails, the one on his ring finger. It takes him a moment to realize that the three preceding it are missing, bloody nubs where nails previously existed, swollen and twitching. Several of the fingers are twisted and broken, including the one she’s working on.

A growl escapes, roaring from his chest, as his eyes glaze over the rest of the teen, almost entirely naked and bloodied and burned. Stiles’ eyes meet his, wide and terrified. His head tilts to the side, ever-so-slightly, as if to say, _don’t bother, save yourself_.

Derek rushes toward them, but Kate’s somehow faster. She’s already wrenched the nail in her grip free (eliciting a broken-off sob from the teen), and has a blade pressed against the boy’s throat.

She tsks again, waggling a blood-drenched finger. Not her blood, he notes - Stiles’. “Down, boy.”

He hesitates, eyes flickering from hers’ to Stiles’ and back. Under his skin, his blood is hot, coursing, desperate to tear and rip, to render her head from her shoulders (though even now he doubts whether, if push came to shove, he could).  He can’t risk Stiles, though.

His mind races, trying to understand why she even took Stiles in the first place, why she’s hurting him, _torturing_ him, when he’s just a teenage boy – a _human_ teenage boy. She’s a sociopath, he gets that, but he still doesn’t get her motives. It feels like an awful big risk.

With no other options, he retracts his claws and fangs and raises his hands, the universal sign of surrender.

He doubts the diplomatic approach will get him anywhere, but he figures it can’t hurt to give it a try.

“The kid’s human,” Derek starts, keeping their eyes locked. “He’s innocent. Let him go.”

A part of him is tempted to bring up the code, but it’s not like she follows it anyway. She’d probably just laugh in his face, smile that pretty smile, and coo at his naiveté.

Kate smirks, cutting a shallow line along the boy’s neck. “Nah, I don’t think I will.”

He bites down his growl, but only just. “Look, you have me, okay? What do you need him for? Let him free and I won’t even struggle.”

It’s a lie. He’ll certainly struggle once Stiles is in the clear, but it’s all he has to offer at the moment.

“But I like it when you struggle,” purrs Kate, the sadistic edge he once overlooked gleaming in her eyes. “Besides, why would I trade when I already have both of you? It’s not like you’re in any position to bargain.”

Her grip finally loosens and she lowers the knife, placing it precariously against Stiles’ pale lap. From somewhere beside her, she retrieves a long rod instead, one he knows from experience will send thousands of volts coursing through his person.

She stands in front of Stiles, rocking on the balls of her feet, body a line of confidence. Her lips are spread in a face-wide grin, eager, eyes glittering with excitement. The rod is thrust out. “Well, come on!”

He rushes her. It’s pointless, but he does it anyway, because what else is he going to do? He gets the feeling that if he doesn’t, she’ll just drive it into Stiles to prove a point. The tip of the baton finds its home in his gut, a buzzing current that makes his muscles contract and burn. It winds him, immediate and consuming, and Kate _holds_ it, pressing it into him, long and hard.

In the aftermath, he’s left gasping on the floor, trying in vain to push himself up. He cranes his neck, eyes zeroing in on Kate, but the baton is being swung like a bat, and the last thing he sees is Kate’s smug grin before the rode makes contact with his temple.

***

When he comes to, agonizingly slowly and with bleary eyes, the first thing Derek realizes is that his wrists are chained above his head. They itch and burn and he suspects wolfsbane played a role in either their construction or their implementation. When he tries to adjust, to strain against the cuffs, they don’t even budge.

The second thing he notices is that somewhere between the electrocution and the bondage, he lost his shirt. He can feel a draft against his skin, cooling the sweat caked on his back. He can feel wires, too, attached to a patch near his abdomen, and his body instinctively tenses at the invasiveness.

It’s several minutes before his sight finally blinks into focus and he’s able to take in his surroundings. It’s still the same room, the same torture chamber, dimly lit and reeking of suffering and blood and _burning_.

Stiles’ chair has been moved and is now a good seven feet or so away from him, close but unreachable. He can see the boy better now, can see the unnatural whiteness in his pallor, glistening with sweat and blood. His entire being is shaking, fingers twitching, bloodshot eyes watching him tiredly. Derek had been too distracted before by the stench to notice the actual burns, marring all along the side of his face, from beside his left eye down to just below his chin, where his jawline meets his neck.

The wounds are striking, particularly in their obvious deliberateness. The skin is morphed, red and blistered, blackened in places. Derek can smell it, nauseating and grotesque, and for a moment he has to close his eyes to repress the flashes in his mind of his family’s remains.

The rest of Stiles’ body is covered in similar marks, ranging in extremity. There are cuts, too, a different kind of disturbing. Kate had done those in parallel threesomes, spacing them just far enough away that they couldn’t be easily stitched, that they would, more likely than not, scar. The right side of Stiles’ face is cut in the same pattern as the burns, pseudo-symmetrically; they materialize across the rest of his body repeatedly, too.

Derek can see a deep, badly burned spot on the top of Stiles’ right hand, and a large patch on Stiles’ thigh, crisp and more black than red. Kate had also managed to pluck some of the fingernails from his other hand, too, before he’d gotten there, it seems. There are other injuries, too, but those look like the results of a struggle rather than deliberate torture: a swollen ankle, a split lip, little crescent-shaped divots on the sides of his face, likely from fingernails digging in.

It’s bad. Derek doesn’t have to be a doctor to know the boy needs medical attention, preferably sooner rather than later. At this rate, he’ll be lucky if the wounds don’t become infected.

“D’rk?” Stiles voice comes out as a rasp, barely audible, barely decipherable. Under drooping eyelids, the teen stares up at him, locking his gaze.

Derek wants to ask if he’s okay, but there’s no point since it’s clear that he’s not. Instead, Derek listens, trying to focus his hearing. Kate's still close, still within range. It makes Derek still, not wanting to make noise, not wanting to alert her to his consciousness, desperate for a longer reprieve. They need more time for Scott to receive his text, for the teen to come after them.

He nods in response, assuming Stiles can see him, hoping that he understands the need for subtlety and silence.

“She’s not gonna let me go,” the teen mumbles out softly, stumbling over his words. “A’ready said as much. So no more o’ tha’ self-sa’rificing bullshit, ‘kay?”

It’s not just his words that give Derek pause, but the way he says them, so hopelessly, like he’s already given up. Derek knows from personal experience that that kind of attitude won’t be beneficial in his survival.

As strategic as it would be to keep silent, Derek needs for him to believe they’ll escape, that they’ll live, so that he’ll keep fighting.

“We’re going to get out of here,” Derek whispers, a promise he’s not sure he can keep. He pitches his voice low, so that he can barely hear it to his own ears. “Scott’ll come.”

Stiles stays quiet, gnawing absently on his lower lip, but he nods minutely before bowing his head. It’ll have to be enough, Derek decides, frowning. His arms pull at the chains, listening for Kate as he attempts to wrench his arms free.

Mere minutes pass before footsteps echo from out in the hall, making their way loudly toward them. Stiles can hear them too, if the way he tenses is any indicator. As much so as he can, Derek forces his body to slacken, closing his eyes, feigning unconsciousness.

The door opens, metal scraping on concrete. It slams shut in the same breath.

“Look at the widdle werewolf pretending to sleep,” Kate sings, letting out a low whistle. “He definitely grew up to be a looker, didn’t he, kid? I mean, look at those abs, for starters! I could eat off them. Or, you know, just eat them. All these years and I’ve never actually tried werewolf. I’m sure baby Hale over here would make a mean entrée.”

He can hear the way Stiles’ heart spikes at that. “You’re _sick_ ,” the boy spits. A slap sounds in the aftermath, ringing in his ears.

There’s no use for the pretense. Derek opens his eyes, glaring at the hunter. Casually, Kate closes the distance, strolling between her captives, grinning.

“Let’s see if you can be a bit more cooperative, huh?”

Her hands, surprisingly soft for all their calluses and scars, caress his face in a grip that could be gentle, but isn’t, tightening as it reaches his chin and angling it down so that their eyes meet.

“Don’t worry, hon, it’s a really easy question,” she says, lips quirked up. “Tell me, Derek. Who’s your alpha?”

The question isn’t surprising, and he’s almost tempted to tell her. It’s what Peter wants, after all: a face-off with the woman who burned his family alive. But it still feels like a betrayal, and his mind won’t let him. The instinct to protect his alpha is too strong.

“Screw you,” he ends up biting out, fangs elongating. It won’t intimidate her, he knows that, but it’s in his blood to try, regardless of the futility.

In his ear, she whispers, “Been there, done that,” and smiles, backing away as he lunges forward, straining in the chains. “Stiles had a similar reply, didn’t you, Stiles?” she asks, her voice sickeningly sweet, glancing back at the teenager. Some of the boy’s fingers – the ones that aren’t broken – are clutching at the arms of his chair, white knuckled and strained.

He doesn’t see her withdraw the baton. By the time he realizes what her play is, she’s already in front of Stiles, off to the side just enough to ensure Derek’s view of the show, and then she’s jamming the rod into the teen’s stomach.

Stiles’ scream is hoarse, blood curdling, choking off into a sob as she holds the rod in place, releasing it after several long, agonizing seconds. The boy’s eyes screw shut as he gasps for breath, wheezing with every intake of air in his lungs.

Derek’s mouth is dry, clammy. He’d expected torture, known screaming would be involved, but he thought it would be directed at him. Not at the helpless teenager, bound and beaten, who won’t be able to heal from this, not in the same way as he could.

Kate’s grin is wide, excited. He can hear the blood rushing in her veins, reveling in the bloodshed, in the suffering.

“Let’s try that again,” she says, voice velvety smooth. “Who’s your alpha, Derek?”

 _Peter_ , he thinks desperately, opening his mouth to answer and willing the words into existence, _my uncle_. But the sounds are lodged in his throat, stuck. His mouth hangs open stupidly as he gropes for a response, any kind of response that will give her pause.

She _tsks_ , again, before he can come up with one, grabbing Stiles by the jaw, craning his head up so that the teen’s eyes meet his, hardened and filled with terror.

“Some friendship you’ve got, huh? Don’t know why you won’t just tell me and save yourself. It’s not like he’s trying to help you.”

He half expects Stiles to avert his eyes, to close them, to curl in submission; instead, the boy’s gaze locks with Kate. Then he spits, a clump of thick, red liquid that smacks into her cheek, rolling down theatrically slow. The residue drips off his swollen lips, which are set in a grim line across his face.

Kate doesn’t seem too perturbed. She wipes it off her cheek with the back of her hand, drying herself on dirty jeans. It would almost be a relief when she moves away, if she wasn’t heading toward a long, ominous-looking wooden box. From it, she retrieves something thin, rod-like. It takes him a moment to realize what it is: a whip.

“What do you think? Five for every omission, ten for every lie?

Stiles doesn’t see it immediately. When he does, he tenses, straining against the cuffs on his wrists. His eyes droop closed, tight and fearful, his breathing heavy, labored.

“You’ll kill him,” Derek says, despite Stiles’ earlier words, hoping that some part of the façade he once fell in love with was based in truth. “He’s human, he won’t heal. I will.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Kate laughs. He hadn’t noticed how low the back of Stiles’ chair fell, only reaching about halfway up his back, so that his shoulders and upper back are exposed. Her arm reels back, quick like lightening, slashing at the expanse of skin, eliciting a strangled cry from the teen.

Stiles keeps his eyes closed as Kate circles around him; her eyes stay focused on Derek the whole time, glistening with excitement. “Who’s your alpha, Derek?”

His fingers clench, claws digging into his palms.

 _Slash_.

“C’mon, Derek! There won’t be much more left of your little bitch if you keep this up.”

His voice surprises him, desperate and raw. “ _Please_.”

 _Slash_.

“Give me a name!” Kate shouts, not quite angrily, but full of spirit, of anticipation.

Derek’s eyes are glued on Stiles’ shaking frame, the teen gasping, biting on his lip enough to bleed, to split his lip further.

“I’m trying,” Derek snaps, and he can feel his eyes flash blue as he tugs on the binds, as he tries to will out the words. “Just _stop_.”

 _Slash_ \--

It rings out louder than the others, like it was harder, more painful. “TELL ME!” And this time her words have a dangerous edge to them, a more vicious ring. She brings down her arm again, in quick succession after her demand, and Stiles’ shout is more frenzied, more desperate.

“It’s Peter!” The words finally tumble out of Derek’s mouth of their own volition, and with them come a sense of relief as he sags in his chains. “Peter Hale, my uncle, just _stop_! He can’t take much more of this, he’ll die. You really want that on your hands?”

Kate just shrugs, unconcerned, and Derek doubts she would lose sleep over it. Carelessly, she drops the whip at her feet. “Was that so hard?”

With blood-flecked hands, she grabs Stiles’ face from its slumped position, pressing her lips to his temple, smacking them loudly, mockingly. When she finally releases him, the teen flings himself from her touch as far as his binds will allow, whipping his head up, eyes sharp and virulent.

“Don’ touch me,” he spits.

Kate chuckles, ruffling his hair as she passes. “Well, kids, I’ll be back. Don’t have too much fun while I’m gone.” Her hand lingers on the door handle. When she turns around, another smile lights up her face. “Oh, and Derek?” she says, casually, as if talking to a mailman or an old acquaintance, “If you lied to me, I’ll kill your little pet human. I might even let some of my friends have a go with him first. They like boys with pretty mouths and Bambi-eyes. So, if there’s something you want to say before wasting my time, I suggest you speak up now, okay, hon?”

Derek presses his lips together as their eyes meet. Then she winks and leaves, locking the door behind her.

Silence follows, Stiles’ stuttered heartbeat the room’s only soundtrack. Derek wants to wait until Kate has cleared his hearing range to speak, doesn’t want to risk her turning around and continuing the torture.

Stiles beats him to the punch. “Hope Peter rips ‘er throat out,” he slurs out, a hard edge to his voice. It’s so bitter and un-Stiles-like that it makes Derek double take, fixing his gaze on the boy’s shaking form. He can’t blame him.

“Me too,” he says in a quiet voice, knowing he would never be able to do it himself. “I’m sorry.”

Tiredly, Stiles meets his eyes, the fight gone, his face sagged and aged. “’t’s okay,” he manages to utter. Derek notices the teen is still tugging at his wrists, but he doesn’t seem to be managing much success, either. After many minutes pass, the boy lets his eyes close, face scrunched, and bows his head.

Derek wants to promise him, again, that they’ll get free, but he’s not too optimistic at this point and knows Stiles will be able to tell. At best, Scott will have found the passageway and will rescue them, and _maybe_ they can get Stiles to the hospital before the damage becomes permanent. He would also settle for Kate finding Peter and Peter killing her, finishing his revenge; then Peter can come to find them and free them. The pack bond would be too strong for the alpha just to abandon him. He hopes, at least.

He tries with something he’s relatively sure of, something he thinks will soothe the teen. “You’re dad will be looking for you.”

But Stiles just jerks his head to the side. “No, ‘e won’,” he mumbles quietly.

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet, tugging at the chains uselessly. Across the room, he can see his phone buzzing on a long, wooden table, strewn amongst the other contents of his pockets. Stiles’ phone is beside it. Kate must have left it there.

The time drags on inexorably slow until Derek finally hears a set of footsteps. Stiles flinches at the sound. Whoever it is pauses outside the door and fiddles with the lock. Then, the door is tentatively slid open.

***

Scott isn’t worried when twenty minutes have passed after Stiles’ _on my way_ text. It’s only 8:30. The night is still young and for all he knows, his friend could have been held up by traffic, or delayed by his dad.

He trails after his mom and Peter, waiting for some opportunity to intercede. When his phone dings, he glances down, expecting some kind of message from Stiles, but it’s just Allison, asking if everything is okay. Scott tries not to think about her, waiting for him in his bedroom, most likely growing increasingly impatient, but he feels guilty. She’d seemed so flustered and unnerved. He’s having a hard time accepting that he can’t please everyone, that he can’t save everyone.

But he will save his mom. Even if it kills him.

When forty minutes have passed since Stiles’ last text, his anxiety increases, because if Stiles is anything, it’s reliable. Watching from outside the restaurant’s window, Scott dials his friend. The call goes to voicemail.

He taps his foot anxiously as he leans against the brick building, just out of view of the window, and tries the Stilinski landline, wondering if Stiles was grounded or something, and if that’s why his phone is off. As he does so, he listens in on his mother’s conversation, trying and failing not to cringe when Peter flirts unabashedly.

The first time he tries, the answering machine clicks on. His second attempt is answered with a slurred, “’lo?”

Scott sags in relief against the building. “Hey Sheriff Stilinski, it’s Scott,” he starts, keeping his voice low. He doesn’t doubt that Peter can hear him, but on the off chance he doesn’t, Scott figures it’s best not to be entirely obvious. “Is Stiles home? He was supposed to meet me almost an hour ago and he’s not answering his cell.”

There’s a pause on the other end, like the man’s trying to gather his thoughts. “Say again?”

“Stiles was supposed to meet me almost an hour ago,” Scott tries again, hands jittery and shaking nervously. “Has he left yet? He’s not answering his phone and it shouldn’t have been more than a ten minute ride.”

The Sheriff sucks in a breath. “No, he’s not here. He left a while back. He’s not answering his phone?”

“No, he’s not,” Scott confirms, the dread rising in his gut. An idea forms, a terrible one, but at this point, it’s all he’s got. Besides, he should be used to the lies by now. “Look, I’m gonna keep looking for him, but do you mind calling my mom and asking her if she’s seen him? She’s not answering my calls, probably ‘cause she’s on a date and she thinks I’m trying to sabotage it. But there’s a chance she might have seen him as she passed by. His jeep is pretty easy to spot.”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff says after a pause. “Yeah, I can do that. I’m going to make a few other calls, too. Maybe he just got a flat on the way over.”

He doesn’t sound like he particularly believes that. Scott doesn’t either. So he just says, “Okay, sounds good. Talk to you soon.” And hangs up.

While he listens in on the dinner, he texts Allison, asking if, by some chance, Stiles stopped there instead.

 _No_ , he gets back. _No one else has come by. What’s going on?_

He doesn’t want to admit that he was expecting to see his friend. It’ll sound too much like he ditched her for him.

Instead he writes, _His dad hasn’t seen him in a while and he’s not answering his phone. Thought he might have stopped by my place or something_.

From his spot by the window, he hears his mom’s phone ring.

“Oh, and who might that be?” Peter asks her in a silky voice.

The sounds of shuffling follow, as she says, “Not sure. Could be Scott. Better check to make sure everything’s okay.” Then there’s a pause. “Oh, it’s the Sheriff. Just give me a minute, okay? I’ll be right back, I swear.”

He can picture Peter smiling. “Of course. Take your time.”

Then a chair scrapes across the floor and his mom’s footfalls head in the opposite direction.

“Hey John,” he hears her answer, the cacophony of noise around her a distraction. “Everything okay?”

He can’t hear the other line, it’s too quiet amongst the commotion of the restaurant.

“Stiles?” she’s asking. “No, I haven’t seen him. An hour, huh? Right. Right. Yeah, of course I’ll keep a look out for him. I’ll call you if I hear anything. Talk to you soon, okay?”

Then she hangs up, and he hears her fingers press against the keypad. Half a minute later, his phone buzzes to life.

“Hey mom,” he answers, feigning casualty. “Everything okay?”

He hears her sigh in duplicate, from her presence and from his phone. “Honey, have you seen Stiles? His dad’s looking for him and he isn’t answering his cell.”

“No,” Scott tells her, ducking by the window, and heading in the opposite direction, toward their car. “He was supposed to head to our house and hour ago, but, like you said, he’s not answering his phone. I’m getting really worried, Mom. It’s not like him to flake on me, you know?”

“Yeah,” she says somberly, “I know.”

“Look, I really don’t want to mess up your date, I swear, but can you please help us find him? The more people looking, the better. His car could be crashed in a ditch for all we know. And I hate to say it, but maybe you could stop by the hospital, see if anyone matching his description has been brought in?”

She sighs again, but he can picture her nodding. “Yeah, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll be home soon. Keep me updated, okay?”

“I will,” he promises, “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she says, and ends the call.

Scott’s pretty sure Peter won’t do anything to her now, not when so many people have seen them out in public together. He’s trying to start a new life. Scott starts the car and heads home, one crises averted, and several more to deal with.

Allison’s car is still there when he pulls in, and she’s typing frantically into her phone when he finds her, finishing her message and looking up.

“Hey, no one I’ve talked to has seen Stiles. Any luck on your end?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he confirms, and the distress on her face morphs into sadness. “Look, I’m really sorry to have to abandon you, but I need to head back out and look for him some more, you know?”

His phone buzzes in his pocket, but it’s Derek, and he can’t answer a call from an alleged serial killer in front of Allison, one of his supposedly would-be victims. He lets it go to voicemail, promising to call him back when he gets a chance. It would be the least he could do, to help them find Stiles, considering how many times Stiles has helped him in the past.

“You’re not abandoning me,” Allison tells him, climbing to her feet and fishing out her keys. “Because I’m coming with you. We’ll take my car so that we don’t strand your mom when she gets back.”

His phone dings again, a text message this time.

On one hand, whatever happened to Stiles could be entirely mundane. Maybe it really _is_ just a flat, and his phone died. Or maybe he somehow got lost. But given their lives, the most like scenario is something supernatural, and he can’t involve Allison in that.

“I think we’ll cover more ground if we divide and conquer,” he bluffs, trying to find a way to talk her out of this without offending her.

But she shakes her head. “I don’t know about you, but I have a hard time looking around and focusing on the road at the same time. We’ll be more thorough if I have you riding as a passenger with a fresh set of eyes.”

Unfortunately, that’s a good point. “Okay, I hear what you’re saying, but I disagree. Stiles’ car is pretty easy to spot. I think if we look separately, it’ll be more all-encompassing, you know?”

Allison looks at him like he’s insane. “Scott, we’re wasting time. Just ride with me, okay? I’ll call my family and ask them to patrol around, too.”

His phone buzzes again, this time a call from the Sheriff. “It’s Stiles’ dad, maybe they found him,” he tells her, hoping his words ring with truth. She nods, gnawing on her lower lip. “Hey Sheriff Stilinski, any word on Stiles?”

When the Sheriff speaks, his voice is tired, frayed. “One of my deputies spotted his car. It was abandoned at a gas station. We’re putting out an APB.”

Allison sucks in a breath, her eyebrows furrowed anxiously. Scott feels his blood run cold, can hear the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“Did anyone see anything?” he forces himself to ask, doubtful that any clues were left. “Any signs of an animal attack or something.”

The Sheriff pauses. “No, nothing like that. The clerk didn’t see anything and the security camera’s a dud. There was a fluid leak under his car, though, like the tank had been punctured, but we’re not sure yet if it was intentional, or an accident.”

Scott would bet his life savings on the former. “Right,” he tells him, mouth dry. “Any other news?”

“No,” the Sheriff says, sourly. “I’m heading to the crime scene to take a look for myself. One of my deputies is going to stay here, in case Stiles finds his way home.”

“Okay,” Scott says, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “I’ll keep looking for him. I’ll let you know if I see him.”

“Thanks,” the Sheriff says. Then the call ends.

Scott angles his phone towards him so that he can check Derek’s message, more certain now than ever that it was something malevolent, something supernatural.

“It was Derek Hale, wasn’t it?” Allison is asking, and Scott jerks his head up, noting a new sharpness in her eyes, a firm setting of her mouth. “He’s a serial killer who trapped us in that school. Obviously, he still has a grudge.”

He highly doubts Derek had anything to do with it, so he says, neutrally, “We don’t know anything yet for certain,” and clicks open the text.

_Stiles hurt. Under Hale house. ARGENTS. Passage in woods. HURRY._

The phone nearly slips from his fingers, and he mutters a quiet, “Shit,” before he can stop himself.

Allison’s eyes widen for a moment, the concern drowning out the fury. “What is it?”

Scott swallows, knowing his poker face is terrible, knowing how unconvincing he must sound when he replies, “It’s nothing.”

If there’s anything Allison is, it’s fast. She has the phone out of his slackened grip before he can even process what’s happening. “Wait!” he cries, but it’s too late, she’s already reading it.

He reaches for it, but she pulls away, glaring up at him. “What the hell is this?” she snaps, that same dangerous edge back in her eyes. “Derek? Is this from Derek _Hale_?”

“He was framed for the murders,” Scott manages to mutter quietly. “I was wrong when I accused him. It was his uncle trying to kill us. He was there trying to help us, but he got knocked out.”

Allison’s face doesn’t change. “Are you kidding me? Scott, you need to tell me what the hell is going on. Now. How do you know he’s innocent? And what did he mean when he wrote ‘Argents’ in all caps?”

Scott doesn’t know what to say that will keep her safe, that won’t send her running into the arms of her werewolf hunter family.

“The truth, Scott,” Allison snaps, tossing his phone back to him. He catches it clumsily, clutching it to his chest. “You know if you don’t tell me, I’m just going to head to those woods and find him myself.”

And, well, he doesn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know how that would turn out.

“Fine,” he tells her quietly, puling again at his hair. “Just try not to freak out, okay? I’m going to preface this display with the words: I’m not going to hurt you, and, I swear it’s not as bad as it looks.”

She nods, the movement cold and stiff.

He sighs, releasing the grip on his hair. “I’m a werewolf.”

Then he shifts.

***

“So, you’re saying my family hunts werewolves,” Allison repeats slowly as they head toward the woods. “And that the Hales are werewolves. And that Peter Hale is an alpha, and is the one that bit you, and has been terrorizing you ever since?”

His mom texted, telling him she was heading out to help look for Stiles, and he’d had Allison text her back, telling her that they were doing the same. Scott’s driving Allison’s car so that she can call the rest of her relatives, trying to tease out which one of them potentially has Stiles. He doesn’t think she quite buys her family’s involvement yet, but she mentioned all the lies and the secrets, the weapon caches and the random injuries they’ve exhibited. So he doesn’t think she doubts the werewolf-hunter thing, just the kidnapping Stiles thing. But she’s still along for the ride, regardless, because thus far, it’s their only clue, so they’ll take it.

“That’s about right,” Scott confirms. There are tracks in the mud that Allison thinks are similar to her aunt’s SUV – her aunt who, conveniently, is the only one not accountable. They follow the tracks to where they end and park. Scott’s tempted to go a little further to hide the car, just in case anyone comes back, but they’ll just see the tracks like he and Allison did and know someone else has been here, anyway. And if that’s the case, they’re really no point.

For a moment, they linger in their seats, the car’s engine dying down as he turns the key. “Let me go in first,” Scott starts, receiving a unimpressed look in return. “Just hear me out, okay? Hunters tend to shoot first, ask questions later. I’ll heal from that. You won’t.”

“My family isn’t going to hurt me,” Allison scoffs, already reaching for the handle.

“Please,” Scott begs quietly. “I don’t know what we’re going to find.”

“Then better to have me there, too.” She climbs out of the car, closing the door gently, and holds out her hand for the keys, which he forks over. Then she pops the trunk. “If anyone in my family’s there, I can go first so that they don’t shoot.”

“It would be more strategic to have you as backup,” Scott argues, the idea coming to him, so that maybe he can protect at least one of the people he loves. “We head out together, but when we find the entrance, you hang back. If anyone sees you, you can lie, say your aunt told you everything and you’re keeping watch for her. That should buy us some time, at least, and you can talk loudly, like you’re yelling at them for their incompetence or something, and that’ll give us a warning. Since your family won’t hurt you, there’s minimal risk of anything happening.”

He pauses, watching her mull it over.

Then he adds, “Besides, and I’m not saying this as anything against you in any way shape or form. You’re absolutely incredible and totally competent. But you don’t have super strength. And if Stiles is really hurt, I’m the one who will be able to carry him out of there.” He can see the wheels turning in her head. She knows it’s the most efficient plan. “It’s the plan with the least amount of risks. And our priority should be getting Stiles out, you know?”

Finally, she nods. From the trunk, she’s retrieved her compact bow and a quiver of arrows. For a brief moment, all Scott can think is, _my god, she’s amazing_.

Then they head out, their sneakers squishing in the damp earth.

Walking in silence, Scott ponders their plan, hoping Stiles is okay, that he isn’t hurt. He knows if the positions were reversed, if Scott was the one who’d been taken, Stiles would be tearing through the forest single-handedly to find him. Stiles would never involve the police, because that would mean involving his father.

But Scott isn’t Stiles, and Kate isn’t a werewolf. She’s human. A prison cell will be able to hold her. And even if it isn’t Kate, any other “Argent” that Derek mentioned would be human, too, so the sentiment still applies.

Scott thinks back to what Derek wrote in the text. _Stiles hurt_. If Derek bullet-in-the-arm-and-still-out-and-about Hale deems Stiles hurt, then it must be bad. The wisest course of action would be to call an ambulance, just in case. Worst-case scenario, the ambulance is unnecessary, which would actually be the best-case scenario, to be honest.

Once they find the entrance, he’ll call, he decides. He’ll request the police, he’ll request an ambulance – anything that could be helpful, anything that could save Stiles’ life.

Quickly and quietly, the two continue on, searching for the way in as Scott listens for heartbeats.

***

Derek watches warily as a figure steps through the threshold, eyes squinted as it tries to see through the dim light.

It’s Scott. Thank Christ. Derek has never been more relieved to see the beta. Scott’s eyes are wide and bloodshot, eyelids dark and baggy; his hair, a disheveled mess, stands on end. The kid is frazzled, must have been looking for them most of the night. His sight lands on Derek first.

“Derek?” he asks, stepping forward tentatively. Then his nose scrunches and his eyes hone in on the other boy. “ _Stiles_?”

As if a switch was flipped, Scott rushes to his friend’s side, removing the patch of wires hooked to his chest, unsnapping the buckles. “Stiles?” he repeats, voice anxious and horrified, “Are you…?”

“’m okay, buddy,” Stiles murmurs, shifting experimentally, wincing and sucking in pained breaths with every movement. The boy gestures at him, and Scott seems to remember he’s there. Scott unlocks him, ripping the wires away, and Derek takes a few seconds to stretch out his sore limbs, steadying himself on his feet, before making his way toward Stiles, who hasn’t moved from his chair.

Derek suspects it’s due to his injuries. He’d actually be surprised if the teen could walk, considering the extent of the damage. Stiles flinches when Derek touches him, trying to find an unmarred patch of skin. All at once, as if in a single blow, Derek can feel every wound Kate inflicted, every agonizing burn, or cut, or slash. He has no idea how Stiles is even conscious.

“What’re you…?” Stiles starts, gasping. “A’tu’lly, don’ care, whate’r ‘t is, keep ‘t up.”

Scott frowns, eyeing the black veins. “What is that?”

“Taking his pain,” Derek tells him, glancing around for their clothes and spotting them on the table beside the rest of their belongings. Scott looks like he has a million more questions, but Derek jerks his head. “Grab our stuff.”

Scott doesn’t argue, obediently scooping up the bundle and bringing it over. Derek slinks back into his shirt and leather jacket with ease. Stiles is harder, but he doesn’t want to leave naked, so Scott and Derek hold him up on either side, helping him struggle into his jeans and sneakers.

The shirt’s a lost cause. They don’t even bother bringing it with them. His torso and face had taken the brunt of the damage. While the pants – loose fitting and somehow less chaffing – are feasible, the shirt’s not worth the effort. They each take their respective phones back, though Stiles can’t seem to navigate his, not with the burns and the breaks and the loss of fingernails. The fingers on his right hand won’t respond properly, and when he tries with his left, it hurts him too much, despite the pain-drain.

Scott checks it for him and finds seventeen missed calls: six from him, two from Allison, and nine from his dad; not to mention a slew of text messages and voicemails. When Stiles glances at the screen, his features seem to melt with relief.

“Dad?” Stiles manages to rasp out, his chest heaving. His eyes are brimming, but Derek can’t fathom why.

“He’s on his way,” Scott promises. “Police, ambulances, the whole shebang. We’re getting you out of here.”

Stiles just kind of _looks_ at him, as if seeing him in a new light, but then he nods.

The teen can’t walk on his own, not by a long shot. The two werewolves argue for a moment over who should carry him, until Stiles grunts, “Don’ care which one o’ ya does ‘t, ‘kay? Jus’ get me outta here.”

In a surprising show of aggression, Scott pushes his way in front of the other teen, crouching down so Stiles can wrap his arms around the other boy’s neck, and locks his legs in his arms, boosting them both up.

Then the three of them set out through the catacombs, moving quickly. Scott glances to him as they progress forward, Stiles’ head lulling on his friend’s shoulder, eyes drifting off.

“Allison’s waiting for us outside, keeping lookout,” Scott tells them. When Derek opens his mouth the protest, to snarl about bringing an _Argent_ of all people into this, Scott cuts him off. “She knows, okay. And she wants to help. She’s not like Kate.”

At the mention of the older Argent, Stiles’ eyes open, wide and alert, before slackening once more.

“Where is she, by the way?” Scott asks. They’re getting mercifully close to the exit now.

Derek keeps his voice neutral, uncaring. “Off to kill my uncle.”

Scott frowns, the moral dilemma clear on his face. “Huh,” is all he says. Derek isn’t sure which one Scott wants to win, if either.

“My uncle can handle himself,” Derek adds, somewhat defensively. The man is his only relative. Despite everything, he doesn’t want to feel that pang of loss again. Neither Scott nor Stiles could possibly understand the pain of losing a pack member, the way it worms at your soul, tearing you apart in a way that’s fresh and new every day. It’s a physical sensation that Derek is all too familiar with. He wouldn’t wish it on anybody.

Scott scoffs, lips pressed together. “He murdered your sister,” Scott points out. “I feel like you keep forgetting that.”

Derek’s fists clench at his sides, glad that they’re so near the door. “It was an accident.”

“No, ‘t wasn’,” Stiles slurs, surprisingly inert for someone so injured. “’twas a trap.”

Scott nods. “They lured her here. His nurse did, at least. Sent her a picture of that vendetta sign burned into a deer. It wasn’t an accident, Derek.”

Derek shuts his mouth, trying and failing to lock his emotions away. He can’t think of that, now – can’t process the idea that Peter murdered his only remaining niece in cold blood. But he remembers Peter before the fire, too, already vicious, already cruel. It isn’t too much of a stretch, even though Derek wants it to be, even though he wants Peter to be on his side, wants him to be his family.

He doesn’t want to lose that again. Can’t.

They’re just about to reach the exit when Scott freezes, frowning, his eyes darting toward the forest. Then Derek understands why.

There are voices outside. One of them’s Allison, loud – unnaturally so – and Derek assumes she’s trying to alert them, to be the first line of defense.

The other is Kate.

Scott glances back into the bowels of the passageway. Even as a child, Derek never travelled further than the first few rooms. He’s not sure where it leads, either.

Both turn, contemplating a retreat, listening in. There’s a quiet tapping noise from deep in the shadows.

“Footsteps,” Derek realizes, whispering to other wolf, whose face twists into a grimace.

“The police should be here soon,” Scott hisses back, gesturing toward where Kate and Allison are arguing. “Better the devil that we know.”

Derek disagrees. He remembers how long it took for first responders when his house burned, and that had been on a beaten track, unlike this passageway. But the footsteps down the other end are multiplying, most likely indicating more than one hunter, and Derek would rather Kate be the one outnumbered, than them.

Stiles can’t hear the Argents, and clearly doesn’t know what the conflict is. From his piggyback-perch on Scott’s back, a quiet, “Wha’?” rasps from his lips.

Better for him not to be surprised. “It’s Kate,” he murmurs quietly as they start forward again.

The boy’s heart accelerates, the sound hitched and wrong. “No.”

They’re close enough now that even Stiles can hear them. “Allison, honey,” Kate is saying, voice charming and leathery, a practiced sound, “Put down the crossbow. What are you going to do, shoot me?”

Kate laughs, as if this is all some joke, some silly misunderstanding.

“Stay back!” Allison shouts. “I know what you did. How _could_ you? Stiles is my friend! What’s wrong with you?”

Kate scoffs. “Look, I don’t know what your little pals told you, but c’mon! This is me we’re talking about, your Auntie Kate! Why on earth would I hurt one of your friends?”

Allison’s voice is quieter this time. “I never told you he was hurt.”

“Well, I’m just assuming based on how you’re acting,” Kate says smoothly. Then they’re silent for a moment. “They’re still here, aren’t they? You’re trying to warn them. Allison, don’t buy into their lies. They’re trying to turn you against me. We’re _family_. You _know_ me.”

“I really don’t,” Allison grinds out. Then, louder, “I said stay back!”

“They’re _monsters_ , Allison. They’ll snap your neck as soon as look at you.”

“You’re wrong.”

Kate snorts. “Don’t tell me you actually trust them.”  Her voice falters for a moment. “Oh no. The second beta, it’s Scott, isn’t it? That’s why you’re going all ooey-gooey over this, huh? Be smart about this, hon. You and me, we’re blood. But him? How long have you actually known him? He’s _using_ you. Creatures like him don’t have the capacity to love.”

At that, Scott snarls. He’s starting forward before Derek can hold him back. Allison is standing directly in front of the entrance, arrow already loaded, ready to be loosed. About fifteen feet away, Kate is watching, arms relaxed at her sides, like she doesn’t deem her niece a threat.

“That’s not true!” Scott snaps, taking a place beside Allison. He glances to her, eyes soft. “You’re everything to me.” Allison returns his expression before her eyes drift to Stiles, whose face is pressed to Scott’s shoulder.

“Oh my god, Stiles!” shrieks Allison, as Kate scoffs at the gushy display.

“Barf,” Kate comments, making gagging sounds. Her eyes find Derek and she smiles. “He sounds so much like you used to, Derek. All, ‘I love you!’ and ‘I’d do anything for you!’ How’d that work out for you?”

All eyes are on him, including Stiles’, squinted and sad. “It ended with my family burning alive.”

Kate’s eyes glitter, challenging. “Can you prove that?” she asks, sweetly.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Allison demands, her fingers tightening on her bow.

“They were monsters, Allison,” Kate replies. Derek watches as her hands shift downward, inching closer to her holster. It must be becoming increasingly clear to Kate that she’s lost her niece. “I was just following orders.”

“There were kids in that house,” Scott seems to remember from their conversation at the hospital. “Human children.”

The hunter shrugs it off. “Well, when you lie with dogs…. You know the rest.”

An arrow wizzes past, slashing through Kate’s jacket, skimming her skin. It pauses her reach for a weapon, if only for a moment. Derek can smell her blood now, leaking from the shallow cut.

“Don’t even think about it,” Allison mutters, voice hard and flat. “Do you honestly think I won’t shoot you?”

Another arrow is loosed and aimed.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’ll shoot,” Kate murmurs. “But I know you won’t aim to kill. We’re still family, Allison. And you’re not a killer. You’re not like me.”

Then the gun is in her hands and she’s firing.

Scott hurls her to the side, tackling her down, trying to shield her and Stiles from the onslaught of bullets. He doesn’t seem to realize that she isn’t aiming for Allison. Kate’s just trying to cause a distraction.

The majority of the shots are being aimed at Derek, not that it’s really a surprise. She probably wants to have the set, to be able to take credit for most of the Hale deaths.

He dodges most, feeling the familiar burn of wolfsbane boiling his blood from the shots that manage to hit him. Clenching at the bullet wounds, he presses his back to tree bark, listening as the shots continue to fire.

Then the shots cease, if only for a moment, and Kate grunts in pain. When Derek spares a look, he sees an arrow embedded in her leg. It forces her to slump, as her limb struggles to support her.

The hunter shakes her head, looking to her niece, who’s already on her feet again, blood trickling down a scrape on her forehead, bow aimed.

“I only came back to ask about Peter’s whereabouts,” Kate tells her, one of her hands tentatively brushing against the tip of the arrow, the other still aiming her gun. “He’s not at the hospital, and he’s _dangerous_ , Allison, more so than me. He needs to be put down.”

Allison doesn’t falter, keeping her bow cocked. “Drop it. Now.”

The footsteps from inside are growing increasingly closer, probably alerted to their presence by the sounds of Kate’s gunfire.

Derek wants to warn her, to shout about the incoming intruders, but they’re already out of the passage and fanning around the group before he can.

There’s only about five of them, but it still leaves the four of them outnumbered and outgunned, especially with Stiles in his current state and Derek riddled with wolfsbane bullets.

One of the hunters, a woman with dark skin and long black hair tied back, tilts her head when she recognizes the youngest Argent.

“Allison?”

Allison opens her mouth to speak, but Kate cuts her off.

“She’s with them. Someone get that goddamn bow out of her hands.”

Allison backs away as one of the men, closer to their age and with close-cropped hair, moves in, grabbing the arrow in one hand and wrapping his fingers around the bow with the other. The girl clings, trying to maintain her grip.

“You don’t understand,” she cries, shooting forward when the man successfully wrestles it away from her. “She kidnapped my friend. _She’s_ the bad guy here, not us!”

The group of them just eyes her pityingly.

“Her human friend,” Derek grits out, from his position behind the tree, where one of the four is aiming straight at his chest. “Take a look at him. Does that hold up to you so-called ‘code?’”

One of them finally seems to spot Stiles and releases a low whistle. “Jesus.”

Kate shrugs, twisting her face in a faux-sympathy. “I thought he was a wolf. You know just as well as I do that they can control their healing. It was an honest mistake.”

He and Scott growl at that, a gesture so pack-like that it physically hurts.

“Honest mistake, my ass,” Allison snaps, eyes brimming with furious tears. From around her neck, she wrenches off the Argent family crest, flinging the necklace at Kate, who catches it easily in her hand. “If this is the legacy you wanted me to follow, you can take your family history and shove it.”

“Allison, honey, please,” Kate tries. “You’re letting them manipulate you.”

“The only manipulator here is you.” Then Allison wheels around to he surrounding hunters. “Please, my friend needs medical attention. We need to get him out of here.”

The group seems to hesitate at that, looking to Kate, who shrugs. “Of course, sweetheart. One of my pals can help carry him to your car.”

“Scott and Derek can help me,” Allison insists, a dark edge to her voice.

“Maybe Scott can,” Kate allows, “But Derek’s a killer, remember? He’s the one that trapped you in that school.”

Allison shakes her head. “That was his uncle. He hasn’t killed anyone.”

Kate smiles. “Well, that isn’t quite true. Derek, do you want to tell her what blue eyes mean? Or should I?”

Derek doesn’t answer the question, doesn’t mention Paige, or how the bite didn’t take, how he killed her to end her pain. He doesn’t have to. There’s someone – several someone’s – sprinting through the forest. Derek can hear their guns clicking, their radios droning. He doesn’t need to look to know the cavalry has arrived.

The cavalry in this case being the police, led by one very worried, very agitated Sheriff.

Kate’s hunters don’t know that; they only know something is coming, and coming fast. Derek darts away, quickly and quietly while the hunters are distracted; it wouldn’t do for the cops to see him, for them to notice the bullet wounds or try to arrest him. From past the trees, he watches as the hunters raise their weapons, pointing toward the rush of noise, fingers heavy on triggers, until they hear the newcomers’ call.

“This is the police! Drop your weapons and place your hands above your head. Now!”

And then a whole new group is spreading around them, weapons drawn and unwavering, more officers than he would have expected. Derek supposes that’s what happens when it’s the Sheriff’s son who’s been kidnapped. If there’s any case where he’s going to bend policies, it’ll be this one.

“Drop your weapons, now,” the Sheriff repeats, his voice harsh, more of a growl than anything else.

The hunters comply. What else are they going to do? A bad relationship with law enforcement is the opposite of what they would want. Derek watches as Kate, too, reluctantly drops her weapon, as all of the hunters are rounded up. Kate is taken separate from the rest because of the wound in her leg, but the rest are paraded off back through the woods.

The paramedics flock to Stiles first, of course, examining him, strapping him to a gurney. The Sheriff looks like a mess as he gently touches Stiles’ hand, whispering to him, pressing a tender kiss to his temple, so different than the mocking smooch Kate pressed there hours earlier.

The Sheriff is riding with Stiles in the ambulance, and Scott and Allison follow behind, presumably trailing in their car. Scott takes a moment to glance around before they head out, probably looking for him, but he leaves just the same, knowing Derek can take care of himself, like he always does.

When the whole mess is cleared away and everyone’s vacated the area, Derek sneaks back into the catacombs and searches for some wolfsbane bullets, finding a small box in a weapons cache and heading back to the burnt out remains of his home to take care of his injuries.

***

When Stiles wakes up, it’s slowly, blinking into the obnoxious overhead lights and breathing in sterile hospital air. He’s hopped up on painkillers, that much is obvious from the light feeling in his head and the dulled sense of pain in his limbs.

There are bandages wrapped on his face, patches of cloth that itch. He tries to move his fingers, tries to bring his hand to his face to scratch, but they’re wrapped heavily in gauze, several sporting finger-casts, and he blinks back the memory of Kate, giggling in his ear as she broke each little bone, as she peeled the nails from his fingers, prodding at the sensitive flesh underneath.

He hears his heart monitor firing away before he realizes how much panic is bubbling under the surface. The incessant beeping is enough to rouse his father, asleep at his side, and alert a nurse, who rushes in to check up on him.

When the fussing’s done and he’s alone with his father, he’s the first to speak.

“Hey dad.” His words are slurred, and he’s surprised that his throat is still sore, still raw and painful.

The look in his dad’s eyes is enough to crumble him. He tells himself that he isn’t going to cry, that he can hold it together, but that’s a lie. The warm tracks slide down his cheeks as his father leans over him, wrapping him in a pseudo-hug, rubbing a hand against his buzzcut.

“I’m so sorry,” his father is say, his voice choked and stilted. “I’m so sorry, son. I love you, more than anything.”

He has no idea what his dad could possibly be apologizing for. “You didn’ do anything wrong.”

The man doesn’t seem to agree, but he opts not to argue. Instead, he just mutters, “I’m glad you okay.”

Stiles nods, only a little, because his neck is still sore. He needs to ask about Kate, needs to know if they have enough evidence to charge her. “Kate?”

His father’s expression is closed-lipped and grim. “You mean besides the obvious charges or kidnapping, assault, torture? The latter of which, need I remind you, is a life sentence in California, if she’s convicted, which, based on your wounds, I’m pretty sure she will be. It’s funny you ask because when we arrested her, she was clutching a very distinctive pendant, one that a witness identified two nights ago as belonging to a woman to whom he provided the information on how to set a fire and get away with it.”

“The Hale fire,” Stiles manages to bite out. At least some good may come of all of this – the conviction of the woman who murdered a house full of people.

“We don’t have enough evidence to prosecute on that charge yet, but we’re working on it. Either way, she’s going away for a long time.” Then, in a lower voice, he adds, “And if by some miracle she gets off, well, I wouldn’t worry about it, okay?”

Stiles can guess what his father means: that if Kate manages to avoid prison, or gets out early, or escapes, of finds some way to hurt him again, his dad isn’t going to utilize legal means to put her down. Normally, his mind would tumble with arguments about the morality of being above the law – but in this case, he can’t bring himself to speak up. She can burn for all he cares.

His time in the hospital passes tediously, every second like an hour, every hour like a year. It’s frustrating, above anything else. He can’t walk, not yet at least – nerve damage in some muscle in his leg – and they haven’t started him on physical therapy yet. Even if he didn’t have similar nerve damage in his hand, his fingers are broken anyway, so that eliminates playing on his phone or using his laptop. They’re monitoring his heart, too, considering the electric shock he received, but other than some random twitching in his less-damaged hand, he hasn’t been exhibiting too many problems.

They leave the TV on for him and bring movies that they play for him on his computer, but the monotony is driving him insane.

After his dad, Scott visits the most, missing school for the first week after his rescue, and swinging by after school and on weekends after that. Deaton’s giving him time off – all the time he needs, according to Scott – and he’s grateful, even if he still feels unsure about the mysterious vet.

Allison is usually with him, but sometimes she stops by alone, too. He can see the guilt in her eyes, that it was _her_ aunt that kidnapped and tortured him, that’s left him broken in a hospital bed, having to pee in a tube because he can’t walk over to the damn bathroom by himself.

He doesn’t blame her. It’s not like she had anything to do with it. And she was pretty instrumental in the whole rescue thing. But sometimes he still flinches when he looks at her too quickly – because she looks so much like her aunt – or winces when she laughs, which isn’t too often anyway nowadays.

He’s grateful for whatever company he can get. And the more he’s around her, the more he can differentiate her from her aunt, anyway, so regardless of their mutual discomfort, it helps.

Derek doesn’t stop by during visiting hours. Stiles thinks it’s because he’s afraid he’ll be arrested, no matter how many times Stiles insists that the charges were dropped, that he’s explained to his father that it was all a misunderstanding, that Derek helped rescue him.

Stiles doesn’t admit it to anyone else, but he almost looks forward to Derek’s visits the most. They’ve starting weaning him off painkillers and his entire body throbs. Derek’s pain-drain thing is the only thing that keeps him from going out of his mind some days, and if it comes in the form of a broody, snarky werewolf, he’ll take it. (And plus, Stiles realizes, Derek’s teaching Scott how to do it, too, which he’s eternally grateful for. The more painless nights, the better).

No one’s seen Peter since Kate’s arrest. But he wouldn’t be surprised if he hears her that her throat’s been slit from in her cell.

He wouldn’t be all that disappointed, either.

The doctors tell him he’ll probably always have a limp when they see how much difficulty he’s having with physical therapy. They’re not sure if he’ll ever regain full use of his hand, either, so Stiles is doubtful the career in law enforcement he’d been hopeful for will ever come to pass. He won’t be following in his father’s footsteps. Kate took that away from him, too.

He’s surprised how much of the semester is over when they finally let him go home, allotting him three days of physical therapy a week for his legs and his hand, and sending him home with exercises to do in his spare time. Since he still can’t walk properly – and probably won’t be able to for a long time – he won’t be finishing the semester. His dad says he’ll be talking to the school, seeing if he can take summer classes to compensate so that he can still graduate on time, and Stiles barely manages to hide his grimace. Summer classes. Awesome. The other alternative is homeschooling via the internet from now until the fall semester, but since he can only type with one hand – and even that is just barely – he doubts that will be the case.

His friends still stop by daily, and Derek pops by on nights when his father is working, which is often, since his dad’s been forgoing day shifts in order to take him to physical therapy. It terrified him the first time, listening to the window creek open in his new room downstairs, turning to find a dark, leather-clad form pulling his way in.

Stiles almost tased him the first time, hesitating just long enough to recognize the intruder, relieved when he saw it was just Derek. Then he almost tased him anyway, for scaring the shit out of him.

Now, Stiles waits for his arrival every night, waiting for a reprieve from the pain in his swollen limbs, for company to stop him from going completely batshit. He’s thankful for Scott, he really is, but the other teen has a life and it can’t revolve around Stiles. Splitting up the time between various people is the best way to handle it. And, besides, Derek’s noted various times that he doesn’t have much else to do, anyway.

When Stiles finally nods off, it’s with his hand in Derek’s, leaning against his shoulder as he the black veins crawl up Derek’s arm, the sounds from _Batman_ on the TV in his room lulling him to a hopefully-nightmareless sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm acting on the assumption that if Stiles wasn't there to interrupt the date between Mama McCall and Peter, then Scott wouldn't have known about Jackson and wouldn't have interrupted the showdown. I'm also acting on the assumption that Derek was only planning to scare Jackson off, not kill him.
> 
> Since Kate was watching Stiles instead of Jackson, she never shot at them and didn't capture Derek that way. And since Scott wasn't shot, Deaton didn't drag him away, and therefore they don't know about his involvement. 
> 
> The tag "the pre-est of pre-slash" is in reference to Stiles and Derek. By the end of the fic, they're, at the very least, friends, but I was trying to imply that someday they might be more. Hence the multiple "pre"s of the tag.
> 
> I'm no expert on the subject of recovery after torture. I did some pseudo-research, but take everything I say with a grain of salt.
> 
> I'm fighting off a really nasty cold -- on that reprised today worse than ever -- so this isn't as well edited as I'd like. It's also a bit rushed because I waited for finals to be over before starting, which only gave me a week until Christmas.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!


End file.
